XIII
The following morning, James Lawrence Challoner did that which he hadnever done since his marriage: he started out to look for a job.Something, which he could not explain, was forcing him to try to getwork; but had he been given to self-analysis, he would have known thatit was Miriam's wrath in her adversity that had kindled into flame theflickering, dying spark of his manhood.
Until now, Challoner had assumed that work was to be had by any man forthe mere asking of it; but he was surprised, startled, shocked, to findthat it was not; that is to say, the clerkships and such work as hethought would be to his liking; and each night he returned to hischeerless, lonely room in the tenement, sore, leg-weary, after a longunsuccessful quest. Work? Little by little he was learning that therewas no work "lying round loose" for the James Lawrence Challoners ofthis world! And yet he persevered.
"I must find something to do," he kept saying over and over again tohimself.
And then one day at the end of two weeks he found himself at the end ofa long line of Italian labourers who were seeking employment.
When the foreman came to Challoner, he called out in surprise:--
"What do you want?"
"Work!" replied the man inside the shell of Challoner.
"With the 'ginneys'?"
"With the 'ginneys,'" assented Challoner.
The foreman stared.
"All right," he said, after thinking a bit, "let's have your name."
For a brief second Challoner hesitated; there was a new light in hiseyes when he said:--
"Challoner--J. L."
And all that day he worked--worked with his hands, and with hisfeet--worked with the gang tamping concrete. It is a simple enoughprocess when one stands aside and looks at it; but after two hours ofit, Challoner thought he would drop in his tracks.
It so happened that his work was on a new department store going up intown. Concrete suddenly had come into prominence as a building material.Challoner and the gang stood inside a wooden mould some two or threefeet wide and as long as the wall which they were building; another gangpoured in about them a mixture of sand, cement, and stone. Sand, cement,and stone meant nothing to Challoner, except that when those threethings were mixed with water and dumped down into his trench, he had tolift up his tamper and pound, pound, pound the mixture into solidity, inorder to fill the crevices, and to make the wall hard and smooth.Meanwhile, his feet were soaked; his boots were caked with cement; hishands were blistered frightfully; and his face was burned by the sun.Nevertheless, Challoner sweated, toiled on.
For days after this first day of labour he was stiff, lame, and sore allover. In his soul he wanted to die; but he lived on. And then, much tohis amazement, he found that the harder he worked, the better he felt:the poison of his dissolute living was working toward the surface.
At last the day came when the doctors allowed him to visit Miriam in thehospital.
"I've got a job, dear," he whispered to her. That was all he told herthen; but those five words were a history to Miriam.
Another day when again visiting her at the hospital, he told her howthey mixed the stuff, how they made the wooden moulds, and about thecrowds that gathered around them, for the process was a new one.
"People don't believe in it, don't think it will stand," he said,watching her closely.
On her face came the interested look that he so desired, and sheasked:--
"Will it, Laurie?"
"Like a rock," he assured her.
But Challoner was ignorant of the danger then, for he had not reckonedwith the human element in the character of construction. All he knew wasthat he worked from morning until night at the cheapest of all cheap,unskilled labour.
After a little while Miriam put out a thin hand and let it rest in his,saying:--
"How much do they give you, dear?"
Not without a suggestion of pride in his voice, the man answered:--
"A dollar and a half a day."
A dollar and a half a day! Surely a mere pittance; and yet the woman'sface was radiant with joy.
It was not long before Challoner found that his arms and back andshoulders were perceptibly enlarging. At first it was merely at hisphysical strength that he rejoiced; but this, in turn, soon made way fora greater joy: he realised that his soul was surging back into his body;he had driven it out, but it would not stay away.
From time to time, Challoner noted that the tamping was developing himtoo much on one side. With the long broom handle, the weight down at theend, his downward stroke had been a right-handed one. So now he triedusing force from the left side. And with that Challoner made adiscovery!
After many experiments it had been gradually borne in upon him thatlight but incessant and vigorous tamping in one spot was more effectivethan the heavy, battering strokes employed by the Italians. The stuffwas smooth and slippery when it first came in, and, consequently, allthat was necessary was something to induce the stones to slip gentlyinto solidity.
"If the tampers were only light enough," he argued to himself, "a fellowcould almost use two of them, one in each hand."
And so he tried it with the two tampers that were on the work; but theyproved to be too heavy. Then, one night, he made a pair of lighter onesand experimented with them. It was too much of a strain; he could nothandle them satisfactorily. Somehow, the work needed the concentratedeffort of two arms.
All one night he sat up trying to figure it out. "And yet," he assuredhimself repeatedly, "I'm on the right track." And so it proved. For atfour o'clock in the morning the idea came.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "A pump handle!"
A week later, Challoner rigged up a simple contrivance depending uponstrong leverage--one that would do the work of a man much more easily.
"It will do the work of _two_," he told himself.
But when Challoner had taken it to the works, the authorities refusedhim permission to use it.
"This here is a real job. We haven't time to monkey with things likethat!" they told him with a sneer.
But Challoner was not to be turned aside so easily; and still hepersisted:--
"It will do the work of two."
Now it must not be supposed that Challoner was of a particularlyinventive nature; not a bit of it. Simply, he was a man of averageintelligence, working at a dollar and a half a day. His intelligence,however, was superior to that of the men about him. Moreover, his brainwas independently busy, while his hands worked.
So now he rigged himself up a small trial mould, bought some sand andcement and rock, and demonstrated the superiority of his pump-handlecontrivance with its strong leverage, its regularity and its strong,steady beat, beat, beat, with two light tampers upon adjacent spots.When they knocked off the mould, these same authorities found thatChalloner was right: this bit of concrete wall was as solid as if it hadbeen cut out of smooth azoic rock. So they called out:--
"All right, Challoner--try it on!"
Challoner tried it on the big wall. It worked like a charm.
At the pay-window, at the end of the week Challoner said:--
"I want two dollars and a half--two dollars and a half a day, now."
"What for?" came from the voice inside.
Challoner replied firmly:--
"Because I've done the work of more than two men." The next day he waspaid at the rate of two dollars a day.
Now he was allowed to have one of the corners all to himself for hiscontrivance. The week after that they laid off two men: Challoner nowwas doing the work of three men. In fact, from that time he and hismachine were made the pace-makers for the entire line of workmen.
The boss was jubilant.
"Gee! I guess we'll get this job done on time after all!" he was heardto say. "I thought for a while the old man was in for a few fines sure."
Nobody else tried Challoner's device; nobody else knew how to use it. Ina way, that was a satisfaction to him. It was a toy, something that hehad created to lighten his labour
s. On the other hand, he found that inhis eagerness he laboured three times as hard as before; besides, he waseven better at the work than the Italians who knew it, had becomeaccustomed to it, and who were better fitted for it. And yet, there wasnothing wonderful in this contrivance of his. But Challoner wasconvinced that if, sometime, he could induce the boss to put it intoconstant operation, it would save that gentleman a great deal of money.Nor did it ever enter Challoner's head to have it patented. Itsprinciple was that of the lever, and, of course, even if he had tried,he could not have obtained a patent. In no way was there a dollar in it.
"But," he told himself, "if ever I go into this concrete business, Ishall insist upon its use. As a business," he went on, "what can be moreprofitable than concrete? It produces a wall as solid as a rock and asindestructible as brick. Bricklayers receive five and six dollars aday,--and brick costs money. But this sand, cement, stone and_unskilled_ labour...." Challoner could see millions in it!
Meanwhile, he was useful at two and a half dollars a day. As we haveseen, they had made him a pacemaker; now, they determined to put hisbrain to work for them: it became his duty to direct the mixing-gang athis end of the new store.
"Don't forget, now, watch out," said the superintendent, taking himaside. "So many barrels of cement, so many barrels of sand, and so muchstone. Now say it as I told you."
And Challoner repeated for him: so many barrels of cement, so manybarrels of sand, and so much stone. But when he was again alone, he saidhalf aloud:--
"So, that's all there is to the concrete business!"
Challoner little knew.
The very first day that he watched the mixing process, he discoveredthat the mixer had put in too much rock and too much sand--and toolittle cement.
"Look here!" cried Challoner, "you've made a mistake! Two more barrelsof cement go in there--do you understand?"
But the mixer merely grinned.
"Two more barrels of cement, I told you," persisted Challoner. Thehead-superintendent had given him his instructions, and Challoner meantto see that they were properly carried out.
Another grin from the mixer was all the satisfaction that he received.Instantly, Challoner leaped up on the platform and stood over the mixer.At that, the man waved his arm; his signal brought not thehead-superintendent, but the general foreman of the work, who demandedgruffly:--
"What's the trouble here?"
Challoner explained in a few words.
"You blamed idiot!" burst out the raging foreman. "You leave the manalone! Do you think that he don't know how to mix concrete? Leave himalone, I say!"
But Challoner, now, was not a man to be so easily turned from hisorders; and again he insisted:--
"Two more barrels of cement, I told you!"
And he kept on insisting so strenuously, that a little knot of labourersgathered around them to await the result. Finally, the foreman saw thatthe head-superintendent was coming toward them from far down the street.
"All right, then," he conceded reluctantly, "make it two more barrels ofcement."
But that same afternoon, the foreman singled Challoner out and paid him.Then he lunged out, and striking Challoner on the shoulder lightly, heexclaimed:--
"There, you infernal jackass! You're discharged!"
"Discharged!" The exclamation fell from his lips before Challoner couldcheck it; and notwithstanding his great disappointment, he made nofurther comment, but turned on his heel and left. The next day, however,he brought his case before the head-superintendent, who said:--
"If Perkins discharged you, I can't help it. I won't interfere."
"But what was I discharged for?"
"Oh, come now!" cried the superintendent; "you must know that you weredischarged for stealing cement!"
Stunned for a moment, Challoner said not a word. Then slowly he began tounderstand. Graft! Yes, that was the solution of the matter. Cement wasworth money in any market; and in the concrete business, nobody couldtell,--until it was too late,--just how many barrels went into themixture. With _bricks_--there was no doubt about bricks. A brick wasgood or bad; you could tell that by a trowel. But concrete was bound tobe a problem henceforth to the end of time.
So it turned out that Challoner was discharged for doing the thing theforeman was guilty of doing. At the time he had little thought ofresentment. It is true that he might have "peached" on the foreman,complained to the head-superintendent, and got them to test the wallswith a testing-hammer. But it was too late, besides, he knew now thatthe head-superintendent was tarred with the same stick.
After this incident, Challoner cultivated a habit of strolling into theoffices of the various dealers in the city.
"What are the proper concrete proportions?" was his request in all ofthem.
Charts were taken out and consulted. There was no difference of opinion:all agreed that the head-superintendent's figures were out of the way,and by one barrel of cement.
Graft! There was no doubt about it in his mind; and he proceeded tofigure out just where the trouble lay. On that department-store jobthere were several mixers. On every mixing the head-superintendent madeone barrel of cement. There were several foremen. On every individualmixing, the foremen, severally, made two barrels of cement. In everymixing three barrels of cement were left out.
"But what about the _wall_?" Challoner asked himself when once morealone.
And so it came about that he found that in this business, of allbusinesses, there was a chance for an honest man. After a little while,he found another job--still at two dollars a day. It was beginning oncemore at the bottom, and working up, yet he did it. But the instant hehad worked up, he was again confronted with a similar situation. It wasa question of "shut up or get out!" Gradually, it is true, the burden ofthe song of these men shifted slightly, and became, "Come in with us, orkeep silent."
A few more experiences of this sort, and it was given to Challoner toperceive that he had knowledge of these things in advance of the generalpublic. People looked upon concrete as something marvellous. Theagitation among the construction men, the newspaper accounts about itscheapness, together with the wonderful results obtained by its use inother cities, all combined to dazzle owners about to build.
From day to day, Challoner could see the demand for concrete increasing.He saw, too, that the price of brick was falling off, because concretehad awakened a new interest in the minds of the people, had arousedtheir enthusiasm. Plainly, Challoner was excited. He could see, couldtalk of nothing else. While Miriam was in the hospital he had begun totalk concrete with her; when she was convalescing and had returned totheir rooms,--they had three now,--figuratively speaking, they hadcement for breakfast and for supper. But it was his business now, andhis whole mind was concentrated upon it.
And in all this there was a singular and valuable fact: Challoner wasthe only man in town,--literally the only man, because of thecircumstances of the case,--outside of the contractors, who knew thebusiness, and yet who had intelligence enough to understand the dangerin concrete. Naturally, the contractors did not tell owners about graft.They did not warn their customers; they took chances; and needless tosay, the owners themselves did not know.
Challoner was quick to seize his opportunity; besides, he was consciousthat a duty rested upon him. Day and night he scanned the papers, andwhen he found a concrete contract recorded, he looked up the owner, sawhim personally and told him facts. Of course, most of this was done atnight and on holidays.
"You don't say so," the owner would respond, opening wide his eyes.
But Challoner mentioned no names; he merely outlined conditions. Somecontractors, he acknowledged, were honest, perhaps most of them, butmany were careless. And then the foremen on these jobs unquestionablywere poorly paid. Surely the temptations were great.
"You don't say so," the owner would repeat.
And when the job started, this owner would put a competent man on tooversee it. Frequently it happened that this man was J. L. Challoner.The time came when he made f
ive dollars a day. Moreover, the time camewhen many of the good concrete walls in town owed their strength to him.
But even though his time was full, and money was plentiful, it did notinterfere with Challoner's interest in the evolution of concrete andconcrete graft; nor was he slow to recognise its value to politicians;and so when the "ring"--for there was still a "ring" in spite of theefforts of Murgatroyd--sprang its little surprise, Challoner knew whatwas coming.
"A new concrete hospital," said the "ring," and saw in it the thin edgeof the wedge, for they foresaw a new concrete jail. Possibly they couldgo still further: if they could educate the people up to it, they mighthave more new concrete city buildings.
However, the new concrete hospital came first. It was one-third finishedwhen J. L. Challoner applied for, and secured a job as foreman of themixing-gang on the east wing. The men who employed him did not know him;if they had, they would have dismissed him at once.
"Great Scott! The graft in cement is appalling!" Challoner exclaimedbefore he had been on the work twenty minutes. He voiced his protest; hewould not stop voicing it: for he found that the hospital was beingbuilt chiefly of sand and broken stone.
And so it was that the superintendent said:--
"I'll have to _see_ him, boys. We must have him in with us on this."
But Challoner could not be "seen."
The superintendent shook his head, and later to the contractors heremarked:--
"Challoner is a dangerous man, I'm afraid."
The contractors laughed.
"Oh, he'll come around, all right!" they assured him. "They all do,after a bit."
But in this case, the superintendent happened to be right. And the"ring,"--the inner circle of the political organisation,--descended uponChalloner like a thousand of brick.
"Come, come," they said, "what's your game? What's your price? Name itand shut up. How many barrels of cement a day? Come, come now----"
Challoner still shook his head.
"Hang it!" they exclaimed; "he's too noisy."
Then they reasoned with him; but it did no good.
"It's a case of using force," they told each other. "To-morrownight----"
But to-morrow night never came for Challoner. The game of graft hadsickened him.
"I have got to tell somebody about this," he assured himself. And thenan inspiration came to him. "I know, I'll go to Murgatroyd!"
"Murgatroyd!" He shuddered as he repeated the name, for the prosecutorhad been connected with the thing that had become to Challoner and hiswife a subject forbidden and unmentioned.
But, nevertheless, he went to Murgatroyd.
The Red Mouse: A Mystery Romance Page 13
